Thursday, March 19, 2009

Dora The Explorer Makeover

The New Dora The Explorer. Giving the old merchandise a sexy little look.

With the new transformation goes the old Backpack, Boots and Swiper. I wonder who her new friends will be.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

American Idiot: A Vignette

Nobody blame Bush. Just be constantly reminded what this Iraqi War was all about.

Some American Idiot had the gaul to post this on Geeks and laugh about it. Just goes to show how downright stupid some Americans can really be. At some point in this boy's life (the one who posted it), I hope he gets the chance to empathize with the Iraqi boy this video is all about...and then laugh about it.

After all, Adversity makes men. Prosperity makes monsters.

The Geeky Link.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Misattributed Quotes to Alexander Pope

Misattributed and highly interesting:

A god without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but Fate and Nature.
Isaac Newton: Principia Mathematica (1687); Rules of Reasoning in Philosophy, Rule IV [1]

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.
Une oeuvre où il y a des théories est comme un objet sur lequel on laisse la marque du prix.
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time, part VII: Time Regained, chapter III, "An Afternoon Party at the House of the Princesse de Guermantes" French versionand English translation

Genius creates, and taste preserves. Taste is the good sense of genius; without taste, genius is only sublime folly.
Le génie enfante, le goût conserve. Le goût est le bon sens du génie; sans le goût, le génie n'est qu'une sublime folie.
François-René de Chateaubriand, Essai sur la littérature anglaise (1836): Modèles classiques [2]

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come;Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.
Credited as Epigram: An Empty House (1727), or On a Dull Writer; alternately attributed to Jonathan Swift in John Hawkesworth, The Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin (1754), p. 265. Compare: "His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home", William Cowper, Conversation, line 303.

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain.Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Samuel Rogers, The Pleasures of Memory (1792), Part I [3]

Never find fault with the absent.
Absenti nemo non nocuisse velit.
Standard translation: Let no one be willing to speak ill of the absent.
Sextus Propertius, Elegies, II, xix, 32

The hidden harmony is better than the obvious.
Variants: 1) The unapparent connection is more powerful than the apparent one; 2) The hidden harmony is better than the open one.
Heraclitus, Fragments, 54 [4] and [5]

The sick in body call for aid: the sickIn mind are covetous of more disease;And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure.
Edward Young, "Night Thoughts," (1742-1745) Part IX [6]

What some call health, if purchased by perpetual anxiety about diet, isn't much better than tedious disease.
George Dennison Prentice [1807-1870], Prenticeana (1860)
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And as Alexander Pope himself would say :
"To err is human, To forgive...divine."

Saturday, March 7, 2009

My Computer's 3D Configuration

See if you can make this work.

I live in a large hollow block. A square room averaging 5 x 5 sq. meters. It is made up mostly of cemented beams...cement for the ceiling, walls, and floors. Like I told you...a large hollow block is what it is. I can hear sounds from all over reverberating in my hollowblock room. Sounds from our next door neighbor when they bang their big tall iron gates. Same disturbing sounds when they bang their car doors.

Sounds from below my room...which seems to have quelled at the moment...that irritating sound of a tiny child speaking a dialect I couldn't figure out what. Anyway, it's just plain noise to me.

Never mind the ongoing construction work of a nearby condominium building which they shouldn't be building in a residencial subdivision. I can't fight the corruption that is City Hall on my own.

I also hear the sounds of my Logitech computer keyboard as I am typing away.

Other than that, there is silence in my room...except for the occasional ringtone reminder...that the grbage truck is due soon.

Sometimes, I welcome the silence. Make that on regular intervals, I welcome the silence. But silence doesn't come voluntarily or even regularly. Sometimes, I create noise to make silence. I have to be adamant to make it.

My mind is dictated by the people around me...as diverse as people who don't fit in our house. People who really have no physical place.

I am trapped in my own room thinking while I type, typing while I spend a little silence. I get silence by simply typing something. I get peace by simply typing and thinking. By turning a little naked and typing something.

I want to be happy. I want to be free. By writing or initiating something, I cannot be blamed for not trying at all.

Mantra/Tantra/

This is the part (the exact same time) where I can actually hear the next-door faggot's resigned reaction. Later in the afternoon, he too will tire and shut up for a few minutes before we do the same thing over again....all while we wither away...into the days of bummer.

My <3's without a home

The State of the House:

People are dying here. It's not a home I live in. There is no warmth except in my auto-built sunroof but sometimes, the sun's too strong and I have to come down and rest in my red room.

The only maid we have is taking care of 1.) an 87-yr old jerk, most of the time, even to her; 2.) a 3-yr old blah-blah from Ani-i; 3.) a husband waiting aimlessly for an overseas job that never comes. He is in my opinion, nothing but freeloader aside from being eyesore. She also, aside from being cooky, cooks smelly fish in the morning and irritates me endlessly with her mind games. She is overworked from my own description. She came to our house to conquer. I'll tell you this. She cannot conquer me. I think she is working with an undiagnosed mental illness: retardation. Seriously. Add to that, righteous indignation that has no place in my heart.

My only sister, 7 years older, just let go of a personal therapist she was solely responsible for taking abroad to work. After a major operation last July, 2008, she didn't take a much-needed vacation from work, only a few weeks in Helsinki with needy friends. She is a doctor but since she considers me an unnecessary baggage, she will accept no help from me, only take here and there and just forget about it as if I owed her something anyway. I respect her. I think she's a good, functional person, just not someone to entrust my life with. Sad but true. Our best conversation is an emotional argument by her. She gets so emotional, which makes me conclude she really needs a doctor...of the mental kind. She too is dying but will not care to admit it to a little sister like me. She feels I deserve no sort of "homey" information. She's just as lost.

My 87-yr old perpetually jerky father is obviously dragging me down just by still being alive and eating off my remaining hold on sanity. Enough said. Senile at best. Senile at worst. Smiling, cursing senile nonetheless.

My 23-yr old nephew with cerebral palsy. He tugs at my heart but what good can I offer the poor boy, who has been through nothing but nothing at all. He was better of sleeping the days off...without care about the world or himself. I'll always be here for him though. He offers me inspiration and hope. Ironically.

My household is comprised of nothing a but a series of mentally ill patients, waiting for nothing but the daily allowance of increasing boredom in their lives. They seem to be happy with that. Maybe I should be too.

I too am dying. I have nowhere to go but keep myself locked up in a room...of my choosing more than 30 years ago...and force myself to be happy without doing anything at all. I've been transparent for the most part. My life is nothing but an open book but people still refuse to see the page where I actually fall off and turn into a hologram. If it's alright with you, I'd rather turn the pages for you and if I choose to close the book...maybe it's time for all of you read another one that's more appealing.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

My Glory to Glory

He just asked me to spread The Word.
A friend of mine sent this to me and he told me who wrote it, I just forgot.
Once I remember or get the info, I'll edit this post with his name in it.
Anyway, this basically sums up the normal Christian life.

"So this guy comes up to me and says: Whats the vision?
Whats the big idea? I open my mouth and words come out like this:
The vision?
The vision is JESUS obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army.
And they are FREE from materialism.
They laugh at 9x5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.
They wouldn't even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the West was Won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations.
They need no passport.
People write their addresses in pencil and wonder
at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.
What is the vision ?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago
to reach for the stars.
It scorns the good and strains for the best.
It is dangerously pure.
Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.
This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose,
that they might one day win the great Well Done
of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.
They dont need fame from names.
Instead they grin quietly upwards and
hear the crowds chanting again and again: COME ON!
And this is the sound of the underground.
The whisper of history in the making,
Foundations shaking, Revolutionaries dreaming
once again, Mystery is scheming
in whispers, Conspiracy is breathing &
This is the sound of the underground.
And the army is discipl(in)ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts for me to live is Christ and to die is gain.
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.
Winners. Martyrs.Who can stop them ?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed?
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
And the generation prays like a dying man with groans
beyond talking,with warrior cries, sulphuric tears
and with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waiting. Watching: 24  7  365.
Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules.
Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide.
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,
laughing at labels, fasting essentials.
The advertisers cannot mould them.
Hollywood cannot hold them.
Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve
at late night parties before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive Inside.
On the outside? They hardly care.
They wear clothes like costumes to communicate
and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They would lay down their very lives -
swap seats with the man on death row - guilty as hell.
A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights
and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God
and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS.
(He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centres.
Dont you hear them coming?
Herald the weirdos! Summon the losers and the freaks.
Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes.
They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow,
mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.
Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven
and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.
And this vision will be.
It will come to pass; it will come easily;
it will come soon. How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself,
the groaning of the Spirit,the very dream of God.
My tomorrow is his today. My distant hope is his 3D.
And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer
invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great Amen!
from countless angels, from heros of the faith,
from Christ himself.
And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.